Amaya’s fingers trembled as she pressed the elevator button. Her mind was racing. This wasn’t just any interview—it was with Sharma Group, India’s largest corporate empire. She’d spent the entire night rehearsing answers, fixing her second-hand blazer, and trying not to think about how this was her last shot.

She glanced at her reflection in the shiny elevator wall. Slightly pale. Lips dry. Eyes tired. Pull it together, Amaya.

The doors opened to a gleaming lobby. Cold marble floors. Glass walls. People in suits moved with robotic efficiency.

And then she saw him.

Arjun Sharma.

The man whose name ruled headlines, whose face was never fully captured in public but whose eyes now locked with hers across the floor.

She froze. He was taller than she imagined. Dressed in black. Impossibly composed.

“You’re late,” he said before she could speak.

His voice was calm—almost too calm—but it held the weight of a man who wasn’t used to being disappointed.

“I—I’m sorry, sir,” Amaya stammered. “The train was—”

“I don’t tolerate excuses,” he cut her off, eyes narrowing. “If you can’t respect time, you can’t work with me.”

Amaya swallowed the lump in her throat. “It won’t happen again.”

For a moment, silence. Then something shifted in his gaze. Not softness—never softness—but calculation. Like he was reassessing her.

“I read your application,” he said. “Art student. No assistant experience. No corporate background. Why apply for this job?”

“Because I need it,” she replied, her voice firmer now. “And I don’t give up easily.”

That seemed to amuse him—just slightly.

“You’ll find this job is... more than it seems,” he said. “Follow me.”

She trailed behind him through a narrow hallway, past frosted doors and blank-faced guards, into an office that felt more like a fortress than a workspace.

Arjun walked to a sleek, black desk. From the drawer, he pulled out a sealed white envelope and slid it toward her.

“Open this after work,” he said, tone unreadable. “And do not speak of it to anyone. Not your friends, not your family.”

Amaya stared at the envelope, then back at him. “What is this?”

His lips curled into something almost resembling a smile—but colder.

“Consider it... your real job description.”

Her pulse quickened. “Is this a test?”

“Everything is a test,” he replied. “You’ve stepped into a world where trust is currency, and betrayal is cheap.”

She didn’t know what to say, so she nodded.

“One more thing,” he added, sitting down. “If you choose to walk away after reading what’s inside… no one will stop you.”

“But if I stay?” she asked quietly.

His gaze darkened. “Then you become my shadow. And my shadow can’t afford to make mistakes.”

The air between them thickened.

Amaya took the envelope, tucking it into her bag. Her fingers tingled with dread… or maybe anticipation. She couldn’t tell.

“Dismissed,” he said without looking up.

The sun was blinding as Amaya stepped out of the building. She didn’t remember the elevator ride down, or the streets she crossed—just the sharp edges of Arjun Sharma’s words echoing in her ears.

"My shadow can’t afford to make mistakes."

She walked until her legs ached, eventually finding a cracked wooden bench in a park no one seemed to care about. There, in the filtered light of late afternoon, she finally pulled the envelope from her bag.

It was plain. White. Sealed perfectly.

No name. No logo. Just... stillness.

Her fingers trembled as she tore it open.

Inside, a single sheet of paper.

---

CONFIDENTIAL TASK – DO NOT SHARE

You have 24 hours.

Your first assignment is simple.

Find out the real name of “M. Rahman.”

He is one of our senior analysts, but we suspect he's hiding something.

If you succeed, you’ll earn access.

If you fail, don’t bother returning.

No internet searches. No asking around.

Trust your instincts.

Welcome to your first lie.

---

Amaya blinked.

This wasn’t a job. This was… something else entirely.

> Who was M. Rahman?

What kind of company asked for this?

What did “first lie” mean?

Her heart thudded. Was this legal? Was she being watched? Was this a prank?

She looked around the park—suddenly aware of every passerby. Every pair of eyes.

---

That night, back in her tiny one-room flat, she stared at the ceiling, the paper on her desk like a bomb waiting to go off.

“Find out the real name…”

How?

She didn’t know anyone inside the Sharma Group. She wasn’t even sure if this “Rahman” existed. No internet searches. No help.

Just… instincts?

She pulled out her sketchbook—the one thing that always calmed her. But instead of art, she wrote:

Rahman \= fake name

Analyst \= maybe in data team?

Must have badge ID

Office floor… maybe I can go again?

Was this what Arjun meant by “real job description”?

It felt like espionage. And yet… a part of her liked the thrill.

For once, she wasn’t just surviving. She was… chasing something.

---

The next morning, Amaya showed up at the Sharma building unannounced.

The receptionist gave her a suspicious look. “You don’t have an appointment.”

“I’m here to submit an updated resume,” Amaya lied smoothly, holding up a folder.

The woman hesitated, then pointed toward the assistant waiting area. “Fifteen minutes. No more.”

Amaya sat, pretending to scroll on her phone. But her eyes scanned every ID badge that passed by.

And then—

She saw it.

A man in a grey suit. Early 40s. Sharp features. His badge read “M. Rahman – Strategy Dept.”

But beneath his name was something odd. Faint, almost hidden—

“Clearance: L-3 (Red)”

Her breath caught. Most employees had L-1. Some had L-2. But Red?

Why would an analyst need red-level clearance?

What the hell kind of company was this?

She stood. Followed him discreetly as he turned down a hallway—

Until she saw it: he used his fingerprint to enter a restricted zone. The doors whooshed shut behind him.

Gone.

Amaya stepped back, heart racing.

She didn’t have his real name. But she had something maybe more valuable—

Proof he was not just an analyst.

---

That evening, she returned the envelope—now with a new slip inside.

M. Rahman

Level 3 Clearance (Red)

Enters restricted zone

Analyst is a cover

What is in that department?

No signature. No explanations. Just a silent dare.

She placed the note in the same black desk drawer Arjun had pulled from.

And left.

The next morning, she received a text from an unknown number:

“You passed.”

Report Monday. 8 AM.

Wear black.

No questions. No late arrivals.

Welcome to the game.

Amaya stared at the message.

She thought she was applying for a job.

She was wrong.

She had just stepped into a world where secrets were the currency…

and she was already in too deep to turn back.

Monday. 7:56 AM.

Amaya stood outside the Sharma Group building, dressed in black, as instructed. Her palms were sweating despite the early morning chill. She watched the glass doors, waiting for something—anything—to make sense.

At 8:00 sharp, her phone vibrated.

"Basement. Level -2. Code: 8146. Don’t talk to anyone."

Basement?

She found the elevator and pressed B2. As it descended, the numbers faded from the screen. Silence. Tension. Her reflection stared back at her in the mirrored walls—unsure, but not backing down.

The doors opened to a stark, grey hallway. Dim lighting. No signage.

One door. A keypad.

She punched in 8146. A click.

Inside, the room looked like a hybrid between a tech lab and a war bunker. Monitors lined the walls. A few people, dressed in black like her, were already seated. Silent. Focused.

A man stepped forward. Late 20s, lean, sharp jawline, eyes that looked like they could read thoughts. He didn’t smile.

“I’m Rivan,” he said. “Team Lead. You’re the new shadow.”

“Amaya.”

He nodded. “We don’t use real names here. Arjun thinks you’re worth the risk. Let’s see.”

He motioned her to sit. Screens flickered to life.

Lines of data. Surveillance feeds. Encrypted messages.

“Your first real test,” he said. “We believe someone in the company is leaking internal data to an outside group. Code name: Mirage.”

Amaya blinked. “Espionage?”

Rivan’s lips twitched. “Welcome to corporate warfare.”

She leaned forward. “What do I do?”

Rivan tossed her a file. “You observe. Find patterns. Track behavior. You’re our artist—think like one.”

Her heart flipped at that. He’d read her file. Maybe more.

Then: a voice behind her. Cold. Familiar.

“She’s not ready.”

Amaya turned.

Arjun Sharma stood at the door, hands in pockets, eyes narrowed. Unlike the others, he wore a crisp suit—no black. Just authority.

“I gave her a test,” Rivan said. “She passed.”

“That was a puzzle. This is a storm.”

Their eyes met. Arjun’s gaze lingered. Sharp. Calculating. But beneath it… something else.

Doubt? Concern?

No. It wasn’t softness.

It was fear.

Was he scared for her?

Or scared of her?

Later that afternoon, while scanning archived communications, Amaya noticed something strange. An internal report… supposedly authored by “M. Rahman.”

Only… it had been submitted before he officially joined the company.

She froze.

Either the date was fake.

Or Rahman had been working under a different name long before.

She copied the file.

That night, she couldn’t sleep.

Not because of danger. But because of him.

Arjun’s words. The way he looked at her. The silence in the room when he walked in. She hated how her chest reacted when his name appeared on her phone.

Was this attraction? Or manipulation?

She didn’t know. She couldn’t afford to know.

The next day, she confronted Rivan.

“Who was in my position before me?” she asked.

Rivan didn’t flinch. “She’s gone.”

“Gone where?”

“She asked too many questions.”

A beat.

Amaya didn’t speak. Just stared.

Rivan added softly, “Be careful, shadow. There are eyes even Arjun doesn’t control.”

That night, someone slid a note under Amaya’s door. No name. Just a single sentence, written in black ink:

“You were never hired. You were chosen.”

And in that moment, Amaya realized something terrifying—

She wasn’t playing the game anymore.

She was the game.